He knows changes aren’t permanent, but change is…

Catch the mystery, catch the drift.

Is this guy the Energizer Bunny or what?

Holy shit but the licks keep coming.

I had the extreme pleasure of reviewing the new edition of the Classic Albums series which focuses on both 2112 and Moving Pictures. (Curious on a personal level, as I myself focused on those two albums this summer in preparation for a larger project, of which more…eventually).

Anyway, among the astoundingly generous 50 minutes of bonus material is (ho hum) yet another new Neil Peart drum solo. My critical appraisal is thus: are you fucking kidding me?

This dude has more integrity in his eye lint than most musicians half his age. And this is after having been a universally worshipped legend for four decades. Whether you like his band or his music, or if you don’t like drum solos (and for the most part, I’d argue we could largely do without them), you should still check this out:

Catch the spirit, catch the spit.

More (possibly much, much more) on this to come, sooner and later. And never forget my friends: love and life are deep.

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Selling The Stories Of Our Lives: Technology and Privacy (Part Three)

THE PRICE OF ONLINE PAYMENT

The final frontier, at least for now, where online interaction and privacy may or may not find practical synergy is mobile payment. Predictably, the convenience and cost-saving possibilities are prompting serious discussion as well as intense debate. For anyone late to this party, there is already technology being implemented that enables consumers to make credit card transactions on their smartphones.

Advocates for this progressive capability claim it’s simply the next logical step toward increased consumer freedom. Many of us already conduct business online, whether it involves purchases at Amazon.com or maintaining a Netflix account—just to mention two of the more prevalent options. And just as digital files have made compact discs more archaic and e-Readers threaten to supplant paperbacks, online banking accounts have made the act of writing a check antiquated. All of these advancements incorporate convenience and reduced costs. The caveat is that the final costs might not be measured in dollars and cents.

A simple Google search will quickly reveal plentiful stories exemplifying how easily technical glitches can expose credit card information, and how simple it is for sophisticated hackers to infiltrate the typical firewalls. We will be hearing—and seeing—a great deal more about the viability, and potential repercussions, of online mobile payment. Once again consumers are obliged to ask themselves what types of exposure they might tolerate for the sake of expediency.

Almost three-fourths (74%) of online adults are concerned or very concerned about the security of any financial transactions they may conduct online. This level of trepidation extends to all age groups and income brackets: across the board at least 70% of respondents indicated a high level of concern regarding the prospect of purchases or banking online.

Every day new articles appear attempting to negotiate the increasingly complex matrix of potential pros and cons. The early adopters represent one end of the spectrum while the unconvinced and skeptical characterize the other. But what about the majority of us, who fall somewhere in between these two extremes? And how many people will be influenced as more anecdotes (the good, the bad and especially the ugly) become publicized?

Between growing awareness of how—and how much—personal data is collected and utilized, with Facebook’s awkward PR spectacle this summer being the first firestorm and the expected onslaught of consumer pushback, a groundswell demanding accountability is inevitable. A more transparent explication of policies and SOPs will be a welcome, if overdue development. It also seems safe to suppose, not unlike the recent environmental or auto-safety incidents (BP and Toyota), it will require some sort of calamity to get the public’s attention, finally compelling pro-active accountability from the companies.

IS LEGISLATION INEVITABLE?

It is not exactly a stretch to see where some of these open issues are headed, and how they may ultimately be resolved. The question for now is: is legislation necessary and how effective can it possibly be? Certainly, if companies are slow or reluctant to fully disclose their business practices as they relate to data capture, there will be a concerted push to create and enact new laws.

This will make businesses bristle, but it should also make consumers wary. With general sentiment toward government at a nadir, the prospect of entrusting politicians to wrangle with these issues is not exactly consoling. And then there is the proposition of a clichéd “Big Brother” in charge of overseeing this bounty of personal detail. Put bluntly, the one thing some Americans may fear more than unregulated corporations is a feckless government with good intentions.

As usual, one way to troubleshoot the possibility of a legislative imbroglio is to review where we are and how we arrived here. Considering the regrettable fact that few people inside the corporate bubble fully grasp the nuances of Internet technology, it is unrealistic to imagine many (if any) of our politicians having an adequate handle on how things work—much less being able to cultivate a balance between the entrepreneurial spirit and consumer rights. On the other hand, the Internet—in its myriad manifestations—is a massive component of the U.S. economy. As such, it behooves tech firms to view these challenges as a potential opportunity to engage and foster a meaningful dialogue.

According to Mike Shields, a Republican political strategist with almost two decades of experience inside (and outside) the Nation’s Capitol, the people most affected by policy (e.g., the tech firms) have been very slow to recognize how powerful and important Washington, D.C. is. In other words, despite the caricature of an incompetent, money-spending monolith, the not-so-simple reality is that all these moving parts making our laws are empowered by actual people responding to what they see and hear from other people (e.g., voters).

“Having spent a good amount of time in and around Redmond, I know there was a bit of a disconnect,” Shields says. “There was a propensity to regard D.C. as archaic, and that the tech companies were too busy creating the future to get involved in any meaningful way with government.” Inevitably many companies discovered, too late and to their chagrin, that government really does matter. “Now people are coming to realize that they need a presence,” Shields suggests. “But a big roadblock remains trying to explain (to politicians or laypersons) how some of this technology really works in the first place.” Whether through outreach or pro-active lobbying efforts, tech firms will only be assisting their causes by connecting on a more human level. “What can happen,” Shields warns, “is that a simple law, especially one brought about due to a situation that resonates emotionally, can derail an entire business model.”

Right now, there has not been a critical mass, as enough emotionally-resonant crises have not (yet) taken place. If, or really, when this happens, action will occur. Helping craft sensible legislation through communication and transparency is a viable way to ensure we see regulation that integrates the needs of businesses and the rights of consumers.

THE SOLUTION TO TECHNOLOGICAL CONCERNS? TECHNOLOGY!

Even with the most well-intended and competently administered legislation, we must reluctantly concede that superior hackers can—and will—easily circumvent new restrictions. Understanding that any move to empower an ostensibly benevolent federal agency can—and will—result in consternation, we must ensure that the effort to control a small issue does not create a massive one.

One reasonable and equitable proposal could involve a concerted effort by the FTC to implement a public awareness campaign. Certainly a proactive endeavor from an “official” player might very well provide the not-so-gentle nudge certain companies require to share their business dealings a bit less begrudgingly. Naturally, if consumers and businesses meet in the middle and utilize autonomy and entrepreneurship it might equate to a much better case scenario. If we see more business models inspired to empower consumers, many of these potential roadblocks might be seamlessly bypassed.

One such start-up, San Francisco-based Bynamite, was recently profiled in The New York Times. “There should be an economic opportunity on the consumer side,” suggests Ginsu Yoon, the company’s co-founder. “Nearly all the investment and technology is (presently) on the advertising side.” Bynamite’s business model is both a commentary on the current landscape and a predictor of where it’s headed. That is, the mining of personal data is here to stay; there is simply too much money at stake to imagine otherwise. Yet the precepts of a (more) free-market arena enable—and insist upon—an exchange based on a monetized or incentivized quid pro quo. In a potentially paradigm-shifting twist, Bynamite is less focused on privacy protection and more interested in consumer choice and control.

In July the company launched software that users can download, which tracks what sites are collecting (from them). The software provides a cutting edge opportunity for consumers to see, and appreciate, in real time precisely what types of personal information they are essentially “swapping” every time they visit certain sites. “In a few years…a person’s profile of interests could be the basis for micropayment or discounts,” Yoon predicts. “A media company, for example, might charge a monthly subscription fee of $10 for news or entertainment programming, but offer it for $8 to those who exchanged their (portfolios).”

This business model seems to balance the current (and potentially future) poles of strictly—and federally—enforced privacy control and the unconstrained access companies presently enjoy. It is conceivable that a win/win scenario might unfold wherein consumers use the one-two punch of awareness and advocacy, while advertisers can increasingly fine-tune their targeted ads.

FIFTEEN MINUTES OR FOREVER: EVERYONE IS A CELEBRITY NOW (SORT OF)

Anytime you are talking about the future, it is irresponsible to express certainty, particularly when it relates to the ever-changing nature of technology. Nevertheless, it is quite evident that we will be seeing and hearing a great deal more about the delicate issue of privacy. In fact, the prediction here is that it will be a cover story in a major magazine within the next two years.

On a micro level, the conversation inexorably circles back to the basic, but occasionally contradictory notions of autonomy and access: we want quick and free content, but what are we willing to exchange for it? Perhaps more to the point, what should we be willing to exchange? The crux of the matter will increasingly be concerned with personal data susceptible to advanced algorithms and cookies that actually mine all manner of data that Internet users are mostly unaware of. The initial indifference is primarily due to lack of awareness: the only people likely to remain disinterested about potential implications are those to whom nothing has happened—yet.

On a macro level, this debate provides some fairly fascinating insights into how our social norms progress. Of course they are always in some state of transition (for better or worse, depending on whom you ask). The Internet, among many other things, has irrevocably altered the way we interact with the concept of celebrity. Instant and unending access has fed our collective appetite for information and intimacy; we “know” people in ways that were simply unimaginable less than ten years ago.

Now, along with the success and ubiquity of reality television, our culture has gone from worshipping to manufacturing celebrity. Recalling Andy Warhol’s infamous claim that “in the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes”, the Internet in general and social networking in particular have ensured that some of us may have even more than fifteen minutes. No matter how banal of momentous, deliberate or unintended, these moments will all be preserved in the electronic ledger, potentially forever.

How we process and eventually regulate the exchange and deployment of this information will be a commentary on how we are able to exist—as employers, employees, parents, children, friends, acquaintances and enemies all with the data to contradict or redefine any of those public (and private) personas. The idea that people have different identities outside of work, whether they are teachers, executives or attorneys, will become more acceptable the more we collectively accept—and adapt to—a ceaselessly open window into the lives of others. The greater challenge is likely to remain how we reconcile the increasingly unfettered access those we know, and especially those we do not know, have into our own lives.

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Steven Wilson: The Gentleman Doth Protest Too Much (Part Two, The Fury)

Many of Steven Wilson’s mostly accurate, but increasingly tedious denunciations of inferior audio can be attributed to genuine motivations. He really does despise digital downloads and looks askance at those who would abuse their ears (and his art) by listening to them. You can usually ascertain if someone’s agenda is disingenuous by the amount of money they stand to make; in Wilson’s case, sniffily censuring consumers for their philistine proclivities is certainly not going to line his pockets. Bully for him; his browbeating-bordering-on-bullishness comes from an uncorrupted heart. Still, fans that are sufficiently removed from the sullied means of production and procurement Wilson whines about might hope he can avoid becoming known more for his crankiness than his musical proficiency.  

It’s not that he’s a snob, these fans could claim; it’s that he really cares about music. (His already notable street cred as a proponent of progressive rock was augmented by his recent undertaking to remaster–for the umpteenth time, it might be noted–the (brilliant) back catalog of King Crimson; suffice it to say, this is not a task the merely passionate producer assumes, this is an obsessive labor of love.)  

So what are we to make of Wilson’s latest jeremiad in Electronic Musician, “In The Mix: Everyone’s A Critic?” A knee-jerk analysis might be that the self-appointed physician who would ameliorate all that ails us might want to turn some of that attention inward. It is by now abundantly clear that Wilson would prefer that more people shared his opinion on how music is made, received and enjoyed. (An exalted regard of his own judgment includes Wilson in an artistic community that is neither exclusive nor in danger of diminishing its numbers.) What is striking –and slightly unsettling– about his new piece is the implication that Wilson might prefer that a great many people have no opinions at all.  

Check it out: in an observation only slight more earth-shattering than the proposition that digital files suck, Wilson rues the reality of our Internets allowing every yahoo to have a voice. Once again, Wilson’s essential position is incontrovertible: there are a disconcerting number of uninformed, semi-literate, sensationalistic folks out there blogging, tweeting and e-scribbling their two cents. It long ago ceased being news (if indeed it ever was) that anyone with web access can become a critic, and anyone who happens on their site, however unintentionally, might become, however briefly, an audience. It’s not unlike the blowhard at every dinner party over the course of several centuries, multiplied by the speed of Google.  

So…what is Wilson actually saying? Well, he spins himself back down the years to the (good old) days of our youth and name-checks the estimable Lester Bangs. (One wonders aloud what Bangs would have made of Porcupine Tree, and if perchance an unkind appraisal from Mr. Carburetor Dung might complicate Wilson’s nostalgic approbation.) Great music journalism, Wilson asserts, “reaches out beyond the music to the core of the human condition, just like the music it is about.” (One also wonders what Bangs would make of that sentence, and that sentiment.)  

As is the case with honest music reproduced on machines designed to authentically transmit it, there is little to quibble with here. An LP (or CD) played on a receiver through decent speakers is the real deal, and even the most recalcitrant hipster would likely hold his Pabst Blue Ribbon aloft in solidarity to this sentiment. Quality music journalism, like quality literature (or quality music for that matter) is always something to savor, and there is seldom an overabundance of it. The only thing worth noting is that this has always been the case (indeed, one could easily make a compelling case that the sheer volume of words being written in 2010 means that there is, pound for pound, better music journalism than at any other time in our history; of course there is many times more crapola); hence the proposition that opinions are like arseholes: everybody’s got one. The Internet, naturally (or, perhaps more to Wilson’s putative point, unnaturally) has enabled every a-hole with web access to let those opinions pollute the public spaces. So what?  

Paraphrasing won’t do it justice, so let’s smell what Wilson’s stepping in:  

Albums are praised one minute as an artist’s best, then trashed a minute later by someone else as the worst—both opinions expressed as irrefutable truth. The quality of writing rarely rises above comparisons to other bands and liberally applied superlatives. Only now, these so-called reviews are broadcast the world over, giving influence to their authors no matter how narrow their frame of reference or biased their agenda.  

Really? You mean unlike the halcyon days when artistic assessments were reached by consensus? (Or do we even want to fantasize about a fascistic purgatory where only the anointed Wise Ones determined what made the cut? We’ve read that book before, and it had something to do with Atlas Shrugging while Orwell imagined a dystopia that Ayn Rand appropriated and Neil Peart wrote a concept album about. Or something.)  

Wilson’s (somewhat surprising, considering his band’s underground origins and the semi-cult status it still retains) despair at the millions of uncultivated impressions exposes an aloofness he is perfectly entitled to possess. Unfortunately, it discounts a rather serious underlying issue: until fairly recently, the same hegemony that governed the music industry also controlled the publishing world –including, and especially, magazines. As such, there were only a relative handful of “legit” voices allowed (e.g., able) to opine, and set the agenda. If history is written by the victors, the present is written by those with entree. Often –too often– these insider types were influenced by personal relationships with bands, and integrity was just as often tossed into the paper bag with the vials and the Quaaludes.  

Does Wilson fail to see even a little bit of irony in the fact that Led Zeppelin, a band now generally regarded as golden gods, was largely reviled by the rock establishment throughout the ’70s? Ditto Black Sabbath and Rush. How many times, for that matter, was King Crimson on the cover of Rolling Stone? A conservative estimate: about 7,000 times less than U2 has been. (If you think the reason U2 has graced that exalted space so often  is because the editors genuinely believe they are the best band around, and not because Jann Wenner gets wood every time he can converse with St. Bono, I’ve got booth space at The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame I’d like to sell you. Check that: the editors at Rolling Stone probably do think U2 is the best band around.)  

Obviously, our Internets have allowed every self-proclaimed prophet to shout from the highest rooftop, even if that rooftop is in their mother’s basement. But the cream generally rises, as it did even in the days when Cream made music and CREEM wrote about it. What Wilson, bizarrely, seems to overlook (and this complements his intransigence on the many positive aspects of digital technology) is that what is going on in the publishing world right now is very similar to what went down, a little over a decade ago (and is, of course, still unfolding) in the music industry. For all the shoddily crafted or hysterical hyping (and/or bashing) blogging empowers, the web is also a vehicle for dedicated, deadly serious endeavors that would have been all but inconceivable a generation ago. And for every imbecile who doesn’t think twice about submitting one-star reviews at Amazon or dismisses a particular album with unoriginal and spell check-free snark, there are music aficionados who are taking the time (and making no money) to promote the discovery of unheralded acts.   

(Speaking of blogs, it would seem remiss to not make brief mention of the fact that the haughty dismissal of these independent and/or underground ventures –however forgettable many of them may well be– calls to mind a similar, much more grave phenomenon. It’s hard to not think about the ongoing, albeit increasingly less credible grousing from the mainstream media regarding blogs and various other unsanctioned sources of news and opinion, particularly as it relates to international and political affairs. Reading Wilson’s piece, his superciliousness sounds distressingly congruent with the Bad Old Boys club of inside-the-Beltway elitism that has sought to marginalize the voices that dare dissent from the already-established narrative. These interloping hordes of “non-traditional” media types have only augmented their collective credibility as we see how supine and/or asleep our ostensible watchdogs have been for far too long.

These recalcitrant –and often unpaid– reporters and bloggers were roundly dismissed –and ridiculed– as shrill Chicken Littles by those same sober and serious denizens of the D.C. dinner party circuit. Those same well-placed (and remunerated) stenographers who breathlessly informed us of the WMDs, the trivial costs –in financial and human terms– of our imminent international adventures and the revised political and religious aligments (which anyone with a modicum of knowledge concerning the long and extensively documented history of the Middle East sniffed out on sight) that would fall neatly into place like so many shocked and awed dominoes, and turned out to be wrong, about everything.)

Would Wilson really want to roll the dice and insert himself back in a time when the prospects were a hell of a lot less salubrious for unorthodox and unsigned bands? Today, there are illimitable sources of opinion, and taste making is as democratic as it’s ever been, in part because of the abundance of voices and agency. On balance, this is undeniably a good thing, for artists and audiences. If it’s easy to get buried in this blizzard of evaluations, it’s pretty painless to seek out consistent and respected sources of guidance. The bile and disposable flame-fodder quickly dissipate into the ether, dragged down by their own ineptitude; kind of the way calculated chart-seeking detritus slinks quietly into the slipstream.

The reason bands find an audience is because they offer something of substance, something that speaks to a disparate crowd who may have little else in common. The way a writer attracts a readership is by engaging honestly and intelligently with the material at hand, respecting the intelligence and integrity of the artists who create and the people who support them. In the better tomorrow we’re always working toward, tolerant and receptive minds will eventually; inevitably find each other –either in the real world or the electronic one.

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One Nation Under A Groove or, Burn, Baby! BURN!

Another great moment in American douchebaggery!

Despite the fact that we’re on somewhat of a losing streak in recent years (thanks, Wall Street!), one of the reasons America remains a place so many people want to live is that we do so many things so very well. That whole Constitution thing is pretty swell. The Bill of Rights turned out to be pretty righteous, wouldn’t you agree? And despite our occasional internecine struggles, it’s mostly been a family affair; we are all in this together. We’ve kept it real as one nation under a groove: the black, the white, the red and the brown, the purple and yellow, as that statesman and patriot Wonder Mike once put it.

We keep it real, which isn’t to say that we are not immune from being real wrong. Our mistakes are indelible stains on our history, no matter how hard some of us endeavor to deny or conceal them.

Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose, eh?

In February, 1942, Executive Order 9066 was issued. That is, the infamous presidential/executive order that, validated by America’s state of war, gave a president (FDR) the power to consign various ethnic groups (see: the Japanese) to internment camps. Not too coincidentally, the individuals targeted happened to be Americans belonging to the ancestry the U.S. was concurrently fighting in WW II (the aforementioned Japanese, as well as Germans and Italians). Over 100,000 Japanese-Americans were spirited away to these camps. Not unlike the concentration camps, one thinks about this period in history and thinks (hopes?) it was far back in our past. Considering the 20th Century was already half-over puts it in immediate, and painful, perspective. About sixty years ago, millions of Jews were being slaughtered in Germany and tens of thousands of Japanese-Americans were being forcibly sent to internment camps. Less than two generations. On good days, we look at this and say “how could it have happened?”. On other days, we look at Guantanamo and it’s difficult to feel too proud of the progress we’ve supposedly made. 

 

This picture has haunted me ever since I first saw it, over a decade ago.

A Japanese family, en route to an internment camp. Neither defiant nor indignant (they could not afford to be), they are quite obviously eager to illustrate their solidarity. Acquiescence. Approbation. The miniature American flags, the victory signs, the smiles. The fear behind those forced gestures. (Not forced because they were fake, but because they were obligatory; imperative as the bare minimum to ensure that the worst was not automatically assumed.) Look closely at how the father sets the tone: he understands the score. Smile, this is your life. The kids are either too old to protest (the older daughter) or too young to fake it (the son). But it’s the young girl in the middle (middle of the picture, middle child in the family) that conveys the intolerable hypocrisy and inhumanity of the situation: she is the only one without a smile on her face or a flag in her hand. She is old enough to understand, but young enough to be understandably petulant about her circumstances. No matter her age, she knows this unwilling exodus is unnatural, unacceptable. And her face (more than a million subsequent words decrying the conditions that led to this embarrassing moment in U.S. history) is able to convey the very human cost of counterproductive policies begat by hysteria.

Never again, one thinks, looking at that picture. It was unfortunate, but that was half a century ago, we’ve evolved into e-mail and instant communication across the globe, certainly we shan’t act that rashly again. Surely we’ve seen enough of this appalling history to ensure that it’s never repeated. Obviously we have made amends and are stronger, as a nation, for what we commissioned in the name of national security. Clearly we could never dive into the deep end again, indulging the uglier side of our collective sensibility. Fortunately we’ve come a long way since the dark ages of our (parents’) infancy.

Haven’t we…

Which brings us to this Quran burning crusade.

Fortunately, it looks like even the most reprehensible ringleaders of anti-Muslim sentiment (see: Sarah Palin) have declared this activity an “unnecessary provocation.” Which begs the question: how far over the edge (and/or desperate for an audience –and cash) are you if you manage to make Sarah Palin sound like a sane voice of restraint? We’ll have plenty of politicians on both side of ideological fence taking an opportunity to talk tough (into cameras) and remind us about American values which, apparently, don’t extend to mosques (that aren’t really mosques) being constructed on Ground Zero (even though it’s not really at Ground Zero).

Personally, I’m grateful to this ”pastor” and the cretins who will put fire to paper on 9/11 in order to prove a point. Because, unbeknownst to these imbeciles, the point they are making is that, as those commercials used to say, a mind is a terrible thing to waste. And while we can’t (or shouldn’t) waste too much time trying to convert the willfully ignorant to enlightenment, we can (and should) keep a wary eye on these very un-American activities. How ironic, by the way, is that? As ever, the people most vocal (and ostensibly concerned) about conduct contrary to America know the least about our history, including the intent of those immigrants (!) who wrote the documents they believe they are defending. If you want to strain the metaphor, it might not be unreasonable to suggest that when anyone burns another person’s bible, they are indeed setting ablaze our Constitution.

These folks, who, we know roam our nation in greater numbers than we might have imagined, (and are so easily whipped into a frenzy by their masters), are more than a little behind the evolutionary curve. While Fox News gets their Fascist on, and Rush gorges his fat ass on profitable cynicism, these has-beens and never-will-be’s (the bigots, the uneducated, the willfully ignorant, the impotent imbeciles, as well as the doctors, lawyers, teachers and parents) find the voice that never answers them in church, or at the office, or in their cars, or in the bedroom or –worst of all– in their own dark and empty heads when the lights go out.

One on hand, you have to laugh at these simpletons who want to “bring our country back”, meaning the good old days when blacks and women knew their place, homosexuals dared not show their faces in public and the bible held firmer sway over a greater portion of the populace. Presumably these same tea baggers  don’t want to also bring back cars without air conditioning and houses without running water, smallpox without vaccine and surgery without anesthetics and a few dozen other of our least favorite things from a time when the world was a whiter shade of pale.

And it’s not at all difficult to connect the dots between the type of magical thinking employed by the bible thumpers and the Ayn Rand-obsessed Libertarian lunatics (how perfect –and appalling– a commentary on the cultural Koyaanisqatsi we are currently struggling through that the son of the Libertarians’ savior is named after the most humorless and phlegmatic popular novelist of the 20th Century. Painfully popular. And imperceptive. (And influential. Right Alan? Atlas shrugged; Jesus wept.) Indeed, the only redeeming thing I can think about Ayn Rand is that she partially inspired one of Rush’s great early albums.

The part that is not funny, of course, is that this is still happening on our watch. As a nation we are deciding what we tolerate and what we will stomach. It’s useful to know how much work is left to be done, and bigots burning bibles is a reminder that we need to get busy. The last few months leave little question that it will be harder (now, later) to whitewash –pun intended– these regrettable instances. They have been scattered through American history like a resilient rash: those times we remained idle while darker hearts strangled our collective souls.

Well, what are you going to do about it, Whitey?

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Geddy Lee: Bassist and Tobogganist

rush_lee78

After that, the only possible chaser is a little Snow Dog. RESPECT!

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If I Could Wave My Magic Wand…

muff

It was twenty years ago today…

No, seriously. Twenty years. Fall semester (because the world was still measured in summers and semesters), sophomore year. Out of all the indelible memories amassed during that four year odyssey, the concentrated experience of ’89/’90 contained a little bit of everything: the good, bad and ugly –and that was just my wardrobe. Things I did and things I saw still impact my waking hours; things I recall and things I couldn’t control still influence my subconscious and work themselves out in novels, poems and blog posts.

So, among many other things, autumn ’89 was a fortuitous time for legendary bands creating stunning and defiant statements of purpose. Neither burned out nor ready to fade away, these artists defiantly informed the world that they were not all washed up, and quite capable of making some of their career-best work. Jethro Tull, Rush and Neil Young all had ups and downs in the ’80s: all relying too much, at times, on the synthesized sounds that were de rigeur (along with laughable music videos). Rush always found their audience, but Jethro Tull and Neil Young seemed to be on the ropes. Then, as summer vacation slipped into a new school year, the first salvo was fired by a one-legged flutist.

rock is

Tull came seemingly out of nowhere (particularly after the snyth-drenched period piece Under Wraps and Ian Anderson’s well-documented throat issues, leading some to wonder if the band was a spent force) with ’87s Crest of a Knave. The album was a minor revelation and led to the very controversial Grammy award (oh poor misunderstood Metallica!). So while ’89s Rock Island caused less waves and sold less copies than its predecessor, it is in some ways the superior album. There are a couple of throwaway tunes and a couple of mediocre moments, but this one also contains some of Anderson’s finest compositions. The band remains in fine form, as you can tell here, here and here. The live performances of these songs were also remarkable, and of all the times I’ve seen Tull, this was by far the most impressive (an experience enhanced by a certain fungus, and a story that shall be revisited another time…)

As it happened, this late ’80s renaissance was a last gasp of sorts: Tull made a few more albums throughout the ’90s (each worse than the one before) and things were never the same. There is enough tolerable material on 1991′s Catfish Rising and 1995′s Roots To Branches to avoid wishing the band had called it quits altogether, but it is more than fair to proclaim that Rock Island was the last time they made truly relevant music (Ian Anderson still had one more masterpiece in him, the mostly ignored, but very worthwhile Divinities: Twelve Dances With God). I believe what I wrote earlier this year holds up as a generous enough assessment:

As some may be surprised to know, Jethro Tull still roams the earth, and while new albums aren’t being produced at the former pace (based on their post-’95 output, this is a good thing for all involved), they are still playing to crowds who happily pay to see them. If Pete Townshend decided he did not, in fact, want to die before he got old, it seems fair play for Jethro Tull and their fans to keep living in the past.

freedom

Now Neil Young is a different story. Crazy as it may sound twenty years (and about 300 albums) later, by the end of the ’80s a lot of people had given up Neil for dead — creatively and commercially, if not literally. Some may recall that Young was actually sued by David Geffen for making “unrepresentative” music. This incident serves to reinforce what an insane (and at times soulless) decade the ’80s were, what swines record label executives are, and how iconoclastic Young has always been. He has made a career out of being crazy like a fox: almost every time he seems congenitally impelled to derail his own success, he winds up looking like he merely creates crises in order to pull another Lazarus act.

All of which is to say Freedom was like Kirk Gibson’s home run off of Dennis Eckersley the year before: utterly unexpected, miraculous and instantly indelible. It’s impossible to overstate how shocking it was not only to hear Neil Young back from the Oz of his own making, but the sheer quality of the work. (Young, alas, is one of those artists whose work is systematically policed on YouTube, so samples from Freedom are scarce, but here’s an acoustic version of the great El Dorado and he made some noise (literally) on Saturday Night Live. I remember watching that, on campus, and thinking how cool it was that there were still some hippies from the ’60s who scoffed at convention and attracted an audience.

Neil has continued to have his hits and misses, but there is no debating the fact that Freedom served as a defibrillator for his creative juices, and he has been riding that recharged heart of gold ever since. Long may he run!

presto

September brought Tull and October brought Neil; what on earth could November deliver?

Well, Rush started off en fuego in the ’80s (Permanent Waves, Moving Pictures and Signals can stand alongside any tri-fecta any rock band has delivered in the last thirty years) and while Power Windows suffered from the excesses of the time (too many keyboards and heavy-handed, inhuman production), Hold Your Fire was arguably the band’s first lackluster effort. It’s far from a failure (in spite of the grief the group took for this video, “Time Stand Still” is a tremendous song and it was a daring idea to include the delectable Aimee Mann) but it raised questions about where the band was going and what it had left to say. Plenty, as it turned out.

Presto is, like Rock Island and Freedom, an album that stopped even fanatic and longtime fans in their tracks and made them shake their heads in happy disbelief. I remember sitting in my friend’s dorm room on a Sunday night, listening to the “pre-release” broadcast on a crappy boombox. For whatever reason, the DJ played side two (perhaps because it leads off with the title song?) and I still recall the immediate reaction: Holy shit, this is incredible!For one thing, the employment of acoustic guitars…how refreshing. But more than that, the band sounded focused and locked in; they seemed hungry. This was when CDs still sold more poorly than cassettes (in other words, they were still somewhat of a novelty and a very expensive one for destitute college kids), and I was staggered by how great the sound quality was on this new disc. The content cops have been cracking down on Rush songs previously available at YouTube, so here are some great live versions here here and here.

Peart was assailed, sometimes understandably, for a decade of lyrics that relied a tad too heavily on themes liberally borrowed from Sci-Fi, Classical Literature and the high priestess of Objectivism, the insufferable Ayn Rand. For the Dungeons & Dragons circuit, this was biblical scripture; for older or less…imaginative fans the lyrics are occasionally embarrassing and have not exactly aged like a single malt scotch. However, the intelligence and unquenchable curiosity always existed, and Peart increasingly harnessed his considerable prowess with the pencil in the ’80s.

Starting with Permanent Waves he turned his attention (as most adults invariably do) to the world we live in and the ways it shapes us and vice versa. In hindsight, it is more than a little remarkable that the same person who penned the lyrics to “Natural Science” and “Freewill” also contributed “By-Tor and the Snow Dog” and “The Necromancer” (which are both excellent songs in their way, but about 99% of their redeeming value is musical). His lyrics for the rest of the decade are on par with the work Roger Waters did during the ’70s: pound for pound, nobody was coming close to being this consistently engaging and erudite.

In many regards, then, Presto found him at the height of his skills and confidence and the results are extraordinary. But more than that, this particular album seemed written especially for sensitive, inquisitive and occasionally confused young adults. Sophomores in college, say.

Hope is epidemic
Optimism spreads
Bitterness breeds irritation
Ignorance breeds imitation

All my nerves are naked wires
Tender to the touch
Sometimes super-sensitive
But who can care too much?

Pleasure leaves a fingerprint
As surely as mortal pain
In memories they resonate
And echo back again

I’m not one to believe in magic
Though my memory has a second sight
I’m not one to go pointing my finger
When I radiate more heat than light

Static on your frequency
Electrical storm in your veins
Raging at unreachable glory
Straining at invisible chains


Twenty years. More time has passed since these albums came out than had passed at that point in my life. But any 39 year old who has learned anything understands –and accepts– that the chain lightning of youth comprises both the pleasure and pain (and everything in between) that made us what we became, and are becoming. Some days we can’t believe how far we’ve come, other days we would give anything to get even an hour of that magic back. Or, as Peart writes, The moment may be brief, but it can be so bright…

If I could wave my magic wand, would I do anything differently? I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t, and each passing year fuels a sporadic nostalgia that is at times so overpowering it unnerves me. Other times I marvel at what I learned and saw, and feel fortunate to have been a wise fool at the end of one decade, incapable of imagining we might all live to see the year 2000. Mostly, I hope I did my best to get it right the first time. Then and now.

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The Washington Post + Integrity = Cygnus X-1

CygnusX1_lg

At this point, I figured I’d said all I could possibly say about my disgust with (and embarrassment for) The Washington Post. Granted, they keep finding new ways to distinguish themselves as a once respectable establishment that has let the rot and refuse festering within turn the whole product rancid. But once one cancels his lifelong subscription and writes a few scathing blogs about it, it’s best to move on to more pertinent things. After all, it’s not as though The Post has stooped so low as to let Sarah Palin disgrace the Op-Ed page.

Oh.

Really? Are you not kidding? At what point do we wake up from this nightmare, or when does someone admit that the last few months have been a joke; an experiment designed to measure the limits of what the public could possibly believe? Can anyone actually tolerate this level of desperation mixed with callow opportunism?

Well, I guess in all fairness, it’s not as though Palin actually wrote this thing. I mean let’s get real.

And it’s not because the piece is (for the most part) grammatically sound; it’s that it predictably and methodically clicks off the Republican talking points, one after another, on the whole “cap and trade” issue. I’m sure there will be plenty of worthwhile retorts infiltrating the interwebs; here is Conor Clarke laying the smack down succinctly, and definitively. Money quote, below:

Just one more point about Sarah Palin’s op-ed in this morning’s Washington Post: the piece does not contain the words pollution, emissions, carbon, or global warming. As Derek says, this is a bit like an op-ed on health care that doesn’t contain the words spending, costs, coverage, or medicine, or a high-school paper on Catcher in the Rye that doesn’t contain the words, um, Catcher in the Rye.

I find this absence sickening. Deciding how to deal with climate change is an uncertain and complicated process. It requires weighing costs in the present against benefits a hundred years in the future. It requires weighing costs in the U.S. against benefits in places like India and Bangladesh. It requires weighing concrete GDP against the moral emphemera of the world’s floral and animal diversity. And it requires sacrificing today to ward off uncertain and unquantifiable future risks. This tremendous empirical uncertainty demands reflection and humility.

And then you have Sarah Palin show up, blathering about how we’re “destroying America’s economy” while we’re “literally” sitting on mountains of oil and drill baby drill and blah blah blah. Sickening.

It would be appalling (and yes, amusing) enough if The Post had the temerity to provide the Op-Ed megaphone to any Republican on any issue related to the environment; but then, you’d think the same thing regarding any issue related to health care, finance or foreign affairs. And as we know, Das Post is not only safe haven for Neo Cons and GOP nut jobs, it is practically their own private country club at this point.

But to enable this disgraced and disgraceful sham of a simpleton to have a public platform, on this of all topics? It staggers the mind. Truly.

I’m no longer asking what has happened to this newspaper’s integrity; it’s a matter of what the next outrage will be. Kind of like Bluto Blutarski, they are rolling, and it might be time to cease being surprised. Their soul may have gotten sucked into that black hole, but going forward, there should be some hilarious wreckage crashing to earth. Stay tuned.

Incidentally, and speaking of Cygnus X-1 (Book One): for the skinniest, dorkiest, whitest man who has ever strapped on a bass guitar, Geddy Lee is a certifiably BADASS MOTHERFUCKER.

glee

Bonus footage. Have to send a shout out to this dude, who seems to have put in the time to actually be able to play along (convincingly!) to the studio version (which, to be honest, is 100x better than the still impressive live version above). Get some!

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My Mix Tape Confession

God I miss mixed tapes.

(Which begs the question: Is it mixed tape, mix tape or mixtape? I say all of the above, and shall use them interchangeably.)

I know this is an old school skill that everyone boasts about; people have even written books about it: some of the stories are successful, some are very good novels that were inevitably made into very mediocre movies.

You can, of course, approximate the experience via iPod and playlists. Anyone can do that. And that’s the problem: anyone can do it. It’s too easy. It might even be easier to create superior product, because when the entire world is your library (also called iTunes), there are no limitations a quick download can’t conquer. But a mixed tape, aside from being an art unto itself (which songs would, assembled in the appropriate order, come as close as humanly possible to 45 minutes per side, often requiring a calculator and album credits to ensure individual song lengths), demanded effort and considerable deliberation, all based on songs already available to the mix-maker. Thus, it was truly a reflection of one’s personality; these were songs the individual had cared about enough to own the album (or, ahem, the CD) in the first place.

For a mix of one specific band, it was a wonderfully excruciating exercise in mixology; the methodology was distinctly Darwinian: only the strongest would survive. Therefore, if you were making a 90-minute mix for, say, Led Zeppelin or The Doors, you had to necessarily eschew some of the longer (and better) tracks to ensure maximum bang for the proverbial buck. Not much point in taking up half of one precious side to ensure that “When The Music’s Over” and “The End” made the cut; or, while it’s hard to argue that “In My Time of Dying” and “Tea For One” don’t belong on any Zep mix, you could fit in “I Can’t Quit You Baby”, “That’s The Way”, “Down By The Seaside” and “For Your Life” in the same space. Of course, mixes for the ’70s prog supergroups were difficult, (think Genesis or King Crimson), to impossible, (think Yes or Pink Floyd.) Sometimes, you simply had to get creative: for a semi-encompassing summation of Rush’s oeuvre (understanding that at minimum two tapes were necessary: one for their first decade and one for their second), you had to cut and paste the old fashioned way. Can’t fit 2112 on, but it has to be included, so perhaps you just put in “Discovery” or “Oracle: The Dream”, or (like I did) just do a several minute pastiche of all the guitar solos from the entire opus. With Pink Floyd, you had to have the epic side-long suites represented in some fashion, so you just took the magisterial opening section from “Atom Heart Mother” or perhaps Part One of “Dogs” (or perhaps Part Two) and, obviously, you had to use your best judgment regarding “Shine On You Crazy Diamond”. It goes without saying that the type of band mix differed depending on the target audience: if it was for personal use, anything was allowed. For friends, particularly ones uninitiated with the artist in question, it was incumbent upon the mix-maker to ensure all the essential tracks (i.e., the ones that did or would show up on a greatest hits album) were chosen (whereas those invariably didn’t make it onto the personal mixes, for a variety of functional and aesthetic reasons). Mix, play repeat: Practice made perfect.

The primary M.O. for mix tapes, of course, was for the intrigue they added to relationships. A mixed tape was de rigueur for establishing, assessing and understanding the various levels of any serious romance. The first mix was as important, in its way, as the first kiss: too early and you could blow it; too late and you may have missed an opportunity to send the right signal at the right time. This ground has been covered ad nauseam and everyone who ever gave or received a mixed tape will recall the rules of engagement. If you remember mixed tapes you received without the slightest pang of remorse, enthrallment or unforced sentimentality, either the relationship or the tape sucked. Probably both. (My condolences.) I know I ended up missing some of the mix tape miracles I gave away more than I missed the women I made them for (which is not necessarily a commentary on the enthralling women who tolerated me for any amount of time so much as an unapologetic appraisal of the one thing I always got right).

Intermission: If this guy wasn’t on one of your mix-tapes, your problems exceeded simple musical myopia:

It occurs to me that I’m probably the only person who believes some of his finer mixes should be enshrined in The Smithsonian.

If obliged to select a few for canonization, among the first inductees for my mix tape Hall of Fame ballot would be Say It Once Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud Vol. 2 (Volume One covered off some of the more readily accessible (i.e., car-friendly) material from mix tape MVP James Brown, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, et cetera, while subsequent volumes covered the bases and the outfield with everyone from Otis Redding and Louis Jordan to Johnny Ace and Sly Stone). Vol. 2 was the sum of its parts, which means it was an embarrassment of riches. It started with Marley’s “Natural Mystic” and ended with Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put A Spell On You.” Songs with words were not always necessary; for instance, Herbie Hancock’s “Speak Like A Child” melted into Shuggie Otis’s ”Rainy Day” and then Young Holt Unlimited’s “Soulful Strut” to round out side A. Flip that sucker over and business gets taken care of courtesy of Aaron Neville, Jerry Butler, The Shirelles, Isaac Hayes, Etta James, Elmore James, The KINGS (B.B. and Albert), Lightnin’ Hopkins and Vernon Reid’s Lightnin’, Dennis Brown and Black Uhuru, The Gladiators and The Chantelles, Bessie Smith, Abbey Lincoln and Fela Motherfuckin’ Kuti. I could say more, but I’ve told you too much already.

Another epic mix that is at once too arduous and too awkward (for the author) to detail is the self-explanatory “Some of the Future Mrs. Murphys” series. This title referred to some (but not all, hence the “some”) of the female artists I would eagerly marry, purely on the basis of what their music did to me. More about them another time, maybe. For now, a handful of sirens who enjoy Emeritus status are lovingly represented, below.

       

Forward progress, particularly in technological terms, is seldom an unfortunate scenario. Letters are almost instinct now that we have e-mail, canned vegetables have mercifully been supplanted by aisles of organic goodness, clunky video cassettes have been replaced by online pirating, I mean DVDs. Even big, energy inefficient monstrosities (cars, as well as TVs) that once signalled American predominance are quickly becoming cuckoos of the 21st Century. These are all welcome and overdue advancements.

And yet…

Not to get all Ray Davies or anything, but the old ways ain’t ever coming back. So it’s seems respectful and perhaps more than a little necessary to let out a little howl for the way we used to roll. What we’re left with now when it comes to mixmanship is, by default, an exercise in onanism: we make playlists for ourselves. The sound quality and song selection are unquestionably superior, but the impetus for creativity and the urgency of the interaction is lacking. A playlist listened to with headphones on the morning commute can never compare with the indelible memories an effective mixed tape could inspire. It was always a fundamentally human exchange: it was an unspoken act of love. Giving was often as good as receiving. There was a specific message that only a mixed tape was capable of conveying, and once we lost that, we all lost a small but irretrievable portion of our souls.

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like butter in the shape of dogs…

 

 

 

mwine122: that’s my fantasy dog breed.

mwine122: http://www.maursett.co.uk/pups.jpg
bullmurph: oh my god those faces
bullmurph: they are like butter in the shape of dogs
mwine122: YES!  that’s exactly it
mwine122: they’re clumber spaniels.
bullmurph: what are they awake, like 3 minutes of each day?
mwine122: I’ve wanted one forever– but they’re pricey… and, you know,… spending a lot of money on a fancy dog…
mwine122: actually, they’re still spaniels, so they’re pretty active.
bullmurph: i love em
mwine122: I met one on the sidewalk in G’town once a few months ago– he was about 7 months old…
mwine122: all mushy and floppy and clumsy … hey kinda barrelled himself into my lap..
mwine122: which I was squatting, so he knocked me over.
mwine122: yeah, butter in dog form– that’s about the most accurate description ever.
bullmurph: love at first bump
mwine122: hey, you know that scene in Moby Dick (oh, I know you do— you love this don’t you?) where they’re squishing lumps of whale fat?
mwine122: those dogs are like that.
bullmurph: ambergris!
mwine122: right— I was gonna say that, but I wasn’t sure I was remembering correctly.
bullmurph: actually, i think blubber is more accurate, but how often can you throw out the word ambergris?
mwine122: well, if you’re into perfume, pretty often.
bullmurph: i guess my straight-street cred is intact, then
mwine122: your average whale makes very little of it, so it’s rare… and very precious.  So, now they have a lot of artificial ambergris-like scents that they add to all kinds of perfume.
bullmurph: “I catch the scent of ambergris”
bullmurph: a line from a very obscure Rush song
bullmurph: i have no idea what it smells like….musky, i’d imagine?
mwine122: sweet, kind of dessert-like, really.
mwine122: in case the cuteness gets too much: http://fuckyoupenguin.blogspot.com/
mwine122: oh, my god. there’s a wombat.
mwine122: have I explained my adoration of wombats?
bullmurph: there is no way that panda picture is real. is there?
mwine122: I don’t know– didja get to the wombat?  I want to marry the wombat.  How is it that insulting cute animals makes them cuter?
bullmurph: i love it. this person is a genius
bullmurph: oh my god hedgehog baby
mwine122: haven’t gotten there yet
mwine122: wait– can’t find it…
bullmurph: keep going
mwine122: oh, god…I’m dying
bullmurph: i am so at one with these animals i just became dr. doolittle
bullmurph: (not the eddie murphy version)
mwine122: see, I think the clumber spaniel puppies totally merit a post on this blog.
bullmurph: i wholeheartedly concur

 

 

 

Question: What do clumber spaniels, pandas and Rush’s third album, Caress of Steel have in common?

Answer: Exactly.

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